


F Is For Fun Is Where You Find It [Or:  Can You Say Inappropriate?]

by mydogwatson



Series: A Baker Street Alphabet [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Pre-hiatus, Slash, post reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:38:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys seem to be enjoying themselves.  Maybe a bit too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	F Is For Fun Is Where You Find It [Or:  Can You Say Inappropriate?]

**Author's Note:**

> I just thought it was way overdue for Sherlock and John to have a little happy time.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and commenting.

I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it.  
-Rudyard Kipling

 

The first time it happened that anyone really noticed was at the scene of a double homicide. The case might have looked interesting to Lestrade when he initially surveyed it, which is why he texted the address to Sherlock. Not for the first time, the Inspector had vastly over-rated the level of interest to be found in a particular crime.

Within moments of their arrival, Sherlock had deemed it a simple domestic murder. The woman’s first husband was obviously the shooter. Dull. Boring. “For god’s sake, Lestrade, have you absolutely no discernment when it comes to such things?”

Sherlock prowled the room restlessly, fulminating over the fact that he had been called out over something so insignificant. John, both hands shoved into his trouser pockets, simply trailed in his flatmate’s wake. Then the detective stopped so abruptly that John walked right into him, almost toppling them both. Sherlock steadied himself, then John, with a casual hand on his arm.

“Oof, sorry,” John apologized. Then he rather aggravated the offense by automatically reaching out to smooth the back of Sherlock’s coat, ending with a small pat on the arse.

//I have no idea why I did that//, he thought. It was a bit not good, not the sort of thing a man should do to his flatmate.

Sherlock was looking over one shoulder at him, a brow quirked.

And for some reason that he would never understand, John suddenly giggled.

There were two bodies lying less than a meter away, the room was crowded with officers and techs, and the whole thing was quite tragic [albeit boring], but John Watson giggled and not especially a quiet giggle either. Looks of indignation or disgust were cast his way.

And than it actually got worse.

Sherlock Holmes snickered.

It went on for some thirty seconds until Lestrade loudly invited them to leave the scene. Immediately, if not sooner.

In the cab heading back to Baker Street, there was no more [well, not much] giggling or snickering. They just grinned at one another.

“You boys having fun this evening?” the friendly cabby asked in an indulgent voice.

“Oh, yes,” John said. “Thank you for asking.”

Sherlock just kept grinning.

 

2

Anyone would agree that the sight of a plump tuxedo-clad man dangling by his neck in the middle of an otherwise empty hotel ballroom was not normally the kind of thing to cause merriment.

Certainly John [regardless of his somewhat spotty record on such things] would never have considered reacting in an inappropriate way, had not Sherlock edged close and whispered to him. “It’s obvious what happened here.”

“Oh,” John whispered back. “Cracked it already?” He didn’t know why they were whispering.

“Of course.” But Sherlock did not seem inclined to share his solution with Lestrade or the others in the room, because he just bent his head and continued to whisper damply into John’s ear. “Had I selected a cummerbund in that particular shade of apricot, I’d have hanged myself as well.”

And John erupted in giggles. After a moment, he somehow managed to speak, but really only to make things worse. “Hell, I’d have helped.”

Sherlock seemed helpless in the circumstance, but still tried to muffle a laugh, which came out as a snort.

Which only made John giggle more.

Lestrade was coming towards them with a face like thunder.

Sherlock grabbed John by one arm and they headed for the door. “Obviously the wife’s lover did it,” he called back over his shoulder.  
“I don’t suppose you have his name,” Lestrade said snarkily.

“Her name,” Sherlock replied. “No idea. I’ll leave that for the brains of Scotland Yard to find out. “

As they swept out through the door, John, unfortunately, was still giggling.

 

3

Well, at least they waited a respectable period of time. Sherlock had been “back to life” for three months. In that time, what with everything else that had to be taken care of, in both the public and the private realms, the duo had only been to two crime scenes, neither of which had been very interesting.

The first was a theft at a prestigious West End jewelry store, quite clearly committed by the owner’s shiftless nephew who had gambling debts.

The second was scarcely more interesting, being nothing more than a clumsy incident of arson at an equally prestigious art gallery, the walls of which were dotted with paintings not actually by Monet, Picasso, or Pollack, or any of the other famous names that adorned some of the canvases.

But the third time seemed lucky.

This was a rather grisly murder. Grisly in a nicely exquisite way and Sherlock was delighted.

John just stood back and watched. And, in truth, he wasn’t thinking about the corpse all that much, because actually murder was pretty commonplace, wasn’t it?

What was far more interesting to John Watson was the fact that he and the great detective had [reluctantly, at least on his part] climbed out of the same bed to attend the scene. They had been sharing that bed for two months now and, honestly, John was still frequently amazed when he awoke with a mass of dark curls resting on his chest.

Everyone was watching Sherlock perform his usual crime scene ballet, although they were probably appreciating it for much different reasons. Or at least they better be, John thought darkly, feeling a stab of something that felt awfully like possessiveness. 

Suddenly, Sherlock gestured in his characteristically imperious manner. “What do you think, John?”

The doctor bent over the ravaged body for a closer look. “The eyes were removed after death,” he said after a moment. He grimaced. “The, uhh, other thing before, I would say.”

“Yes, my thoughts exactly.” Sherlock beamed at him. “Thank you.”

John stepped back as Lestrade came closer. “We haven’t identified him yet.”

“His name is Joseph Wilburn,” Sherlock said in a bored voice. “Drug dealer and pornographer.”

“And you know this how?”

Everyone was perfectly aware of how it was that Sherlock recognised some of the capital’s purveyors of illicit substances, but no one ever really said it aloud.

Someone [Donovan, John deduced] snorted. John crossed both arms across his chest and glared in her direction.

But Sherlock just shrugged. “No one will mourn his demise much, I wouldn’t think. A thoroughly unpleasant man.”

“Takes one,” Donovan muttered.

This time, John moved a step in her direction.

Then he felt a hand on the back of his neck and two lips next to his ear. “A good shagging would improve her mood, I daresay,” Sherlock whispered. “Works wonders for me, as I’ve recently discovered.”

And John Watson laughed aloud at a crime scene.

There were some who afterwards always swore that Sherlock Holmes giggled, but no one really ever believed them.

fini


End file.
